different like me
by potidaea
Summary: Sara and Ava are stranded in 1961. They seek out an old friend for help. (aka: the stone butch blues au no one asked for)
1. Chapter 1

_Her face startled me. It was badly bruised on one side like a rainbow—yellow, red, blue. Her hair was outrageously crimson. I could tell that womanhood had not come easily to her. It wasn't just her large Adam's apple or her broad, big-boned hands. It was the way she dropped her eyes and rushed away when I spoke to her._

_Every day I saw others like me in this city— enough of us to populate our own town. But we only acknowledged each other with a furtive glance, fearful of calling attention to ourselves. Being alone in public was painful enough; two could find themselves smack in the center of an unbearable sideshow. We didn't seem to have any of our own places to gather in community, to immerse ourselves in our own ways and our own languages._

_But now I had a neighbor who was different like me._

\- Leslie Feinberg, Stone Butch Blues

* * *

The plan was to be in and out. Gideon woke Captain Lance and the Time Bureau Director up at what seemed to be an ungodly hour to notify them of a level 6 anachronism at the White House in 1961. The Bay of Pigs, meant to be the beginning of the end of an era of dictatorship in Cuba, led to an uprising of monumental proportions from Fidel Castro. Sure, in the original timeline the Bay of Pigs was unsuccessful, but it certainly _did not_ lead to Florida, Georgia, and the Carolinas being renamed New Cuba. After a brief consult with John, it appeared a demon was feeding off the chaos of the Cold War. With that in mind, it was decided the best course of action was to deescalate the mission from the Situation Room within the White House and hope for the best while the warlock and Charlie headed to Cuba to nab the demon.

They snuck into the White House, acting as secretarial scribes for the event, taking notes and fetching coffee for any man that grunted in their direction. Ava ditched her usual black suit for a navy pencil dress and a subtle heel, her hair falling neatly onto her shoulders. Sara wore a similarly cut dress, true to the era, in yellow with small black flowers decorating the fabric. The Captain distracted the closest drooling man with wandering eyes as her partner's steady hands spilled coffee in another's lap across the room. It wasn't much, but it was just enough disrupt the incessant noise of the room to delay their communications across the satellite phone.

"Goddammit!" A straightlaced man in U.S. Army BDUs yelled and with that, the Director nodded subtly at her girlfriend. _It's done. Time to go._

The two women found out that they were riding on pure hope back to the Temporal Zone when they exited the White House and discovered that not only was the Waverider missing, but no one was responding on comms. Ava wasn't sure who was more upset: her or Sara. The Backstreet Boys - well, more S Club 7 with Charlie and John joined at the rotten hip - stranded them in 1961. In true Legends fashion, Nate had convinced one half of the team to take the Waverider on a half-baked mission (read: joyride) while their Captain was inside the White House attempting to prevent a nuclear crisis. Meanwhile, John and Charlie conspired to swipe Ava's time courier, replacing it with a glamour. They headed to the Sex Pistols' first show in London, 1975, after finding and exorcising the demon in Castro's war cabinet.

The frustrated pair sat on a bench on the National Mall, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Waverider. However, after thirty minutes it became obvious there would be no rescue.

"There's no point waiting here, I'll just use my courier," Ava attempted to soothe her rapidly tensing girlfriend.

Sara nodded stiffly in acceptance, sighing as she rubbed at her shoulders. "Yeah, you're right."

Fuck. As soon as she truly looked at the timepiece, attempting to interact with it to open a portal to the Waverider, she realized she was not wearing her time courier at all. It was a simple watch, magicked to appear as her courier. "Sara…this isn't mine."

"What do you mean not yours?" Her eyes were like lasers.

"I _mean_, someone has my time courier."

It didn't take much of a leap to know where it went. "Fucking John," Sara slammed her fist against the wood, earning the attention of several aghast passersby. When Ava leaned in to calm her, Sara jumped back, suddenly incredibly aware she was stuck in 1961 with her girlfriend. Her girlfriend who was a gay clone. She did the math in her head more quickly than she thought possible. It was three years before the Civil Rights Act was passed, eight years before the Stonewall riots, and a few centuries before the clone rights movement, if there ever was one. Had Dr. King even marched on Washington yet? "Not here."

Ava moved back, visibly hurt and confused - but it wasn't the time or place for that particular history lesson and Sara couldn't believe Rip hadn't at least _mentioned_ the standard line graph of time travel: the lower you drop on the y-axis (point in time), the further you slide up the x-axis (relative shittiness). Sure, 14th Century Europe was full of beautiful and untouched nature…but there was also the Plague. The 60s were no different. Pretty pastels and trees lined the streets where they had grown accustomed to see skyscrapers and smog, but one misplaced glance or touch and they were done for.

"Let's find a phone," Sara grumbled before stalking off toward the closest museum. Ava quickly vetoed the idea of calling the Time Bureau dummy line. The party line system was still in place and they couldn't risk that information becoming public knowledge and catastrophically altering the timeline, so instead, Sara made a call. It took more time than she was willing to waste before a frankly judgmental operator finally found the information she was looking for and transferred her over to the correct line.

A woman picked up on the third ring. "Harmony Falls Psychiatric Facility, this is Deborah. How may I help you?"

"Hi Deborah! I'm looking for a friend who worked at the clinic in '58…Lindsay Carlisle. We went to grade school together, but I've sadly lost track of her since I moved away with my husband Gary. I'm sure you understand. I'd just _love_ to get back in touch with her."

As the reformed assassin was about to gleefully continue on with her charade, the receptionist cut her off. Sara could practically see her nose stuck up in the air. "Miss Carlisle moved to New York last spring." Then, in a more conspiratorial tone, "You may want to count your blessings that you've lost touch, dear. She's…_a bit funny_."

Faux-saccharine dripped from her voice like Splenda. "Well, that's a shame, Deborah. Thank you." Hanging up the phone, she turned to Ava. "We're going to New York."


	2. Chapter 2

Within the first hour of their four hour journey to Manhattan Sara learned that Ava had not ridden a train, bus, or car for any extended period of time in her life. She certainly didn't take vacations and any other traveling she did was via time courier. So, stuck inside a train car that would not pass modern safety standards (the list she was making in her head started with the billowing clouds of cigarette smoke and ended with the dubious engineering) whilst moving at what was _most certainly_ snail speed was not her idea of a good time.

On top of their glacial pace, Ava had been complaining about her clothes since they left the Waverider that morning. It was admittedly adorable…the unflappable woman was so completely bent out of shape by details that would be utterly meaningless to anyone else. The way her nose scrunched and lips pouted as she brushed her hands over the fabric of the dress, itching to be in her own clothes, had Sara biting her lip to keep from saying or doing anything that would completely blow their cover.

_"Why can't I just wear my suit?" She asked, tugging at the dress Gideon fabricated in a futile attempt to cover more of her body._

_Sara smiled sympathetically, "We'll be quick, I promise. I know it sucks." She stepped forward to hold the other woman's hips, "I'll buy you lunch after. It's no Genghis Kahn, but it's not half bad."_

Shifting uncomfortably on the stiff wood of the chair bolted to the floor of the train car, Ava groaned. "I hate this thing."

"The train? It's okay." She shrugged and looked around the sizable cabin. There were women, men, and children of all ages carrying on their normal lives: reading the newspaper, laughing over light conversation, playing with dolls and action figures. It was one thing to step inside a moment in time to correct an anachronism. It was completely different to see people in an inconsequential moment of history, living daily life. They weren't fending off Grodd in the middle of the Vietnamese jungle or ensuring George Washington's ride across the Delaware, and yet, it seemed so fragile. Precious, even. She knew how little lay between them and utter chaos.

"No, this _dress_. I don't know how you do it, babe."

Sara's eyes snapped up, glancing subtly to the people around them. _Did they hear?_ "Oh, well, you know." She laughed lightly, as if it were a joke. Her eyes screamed a silent message across the small cafe table. _Not here. Now now. Don't you know where we are?_ "Gary likes it. What else would I wear anyway?"

She watched as the reality of their situation dawned on Ava, the hurt clear in her eyes. She laughed half-heartedly in response, sipping at her coffee like the solution to their problem was in the bottom of the chipped porcelain cup.

"We'll be in New York soon." Sara attempted. It was the closest she could come to an apology. For now, at least.

The hours passed in relative silence before Ava turned to the other woman, eyes narrowed. "You know, you still haven't said who we're meeting."

"Lindsay? I met her when I first started working with Rip. We can trust her."

—

When the train finally pulled into Grand Central Station shortly after 9pm, the pair heaved a sigh of relief and hurried onto the platform.

"So, how do we find her? Your friend?" Ava ventured.

Sara gave her a sideways smile and a shrug. "Yellow Pages?" Ava knew better than to think Sara had an actual plan. The pair quickly learned that the Yellow Pages hadn't been mass produced yet and instead circled back around to their first option: calling the switchboard operator. They found a bay of payphones near the terminal and made quick work of utilizing the service.

"Hi, I'm looking for a Lindsay Carlisle in Manhattan." Sara requested.

"There is one Lindsay Carlisle in Manhattan. I'll go ahead and direct your call." There was silence on the line before the operator spoke again, "Ma'am, your call has been connected."

She heard a familiar voice as the operator dropped off. "Hello? Sara?"

Mindful that their call was likely being listened to on the party line, the Captain chose her words carefully. "Lindsay, hi. I'm in New York with my, uh, friend. Nothing like before, but not _not_ like before. We could use some help."

"Oh! Well, I'm actually headed out but I'll give you the address. It's near Washington Square Park."

Sara quickly jotted down the address on a notepad supplied underneath the payphone. 130 West 3rd Street. "We'll see you there."

Shoving the address as discreetly as possible into her bra, Sara motioned for Ava to join her as she found the nearest employee as well as her long lost doe eyes. The Director glanced between the ticket seller and her girlfriend as the Captain spoke. "Excuse me, sir. How do we get to Washington Square Park? We're from out of town and just so terribly lost."

He nervously listed off the subway lines that would get them to their destination and Ava grinned as she watched how easily her girlfriend rattled him with a sly smile and the slightest hint of skin. _If he only knew._

The pair made their way downtown, eventually arriving at Washington Square Park Station. Making their way to the sidewalk, it was all the more apparent that they were in a different New York. Cars with big, boat frames careened through the streets in bright mint and shiny red. With a smile, Sara thought back to early Saturday mornings with her father, their greasy hands working at the rusty engine of his battered old Thunderbird. Men and women bustled down the sidewalks in the nicest street clothes she had seen in years.

The closer the couple drew to their final destination, the more Sara noticed others like them. Women standing just a touch too close, some even daring to wear men's clothing and bind their breasts. To the untrained eye they appeared as merely young men, but Sara's heart tiptoed between the warmth of belonging and gut-wrenching fear. This must have meant Lindsay took her advice, found her people - but as Martin had pointed out so long ago, they were decades from safety.

Following behind a butch woman in cuffed jeans and a leather jacket, they arrived, unsurprisingly, at their destination. 130 West 3rd - or Tony Pastor's Downtown. It looked like any other bar from the outside, with it's bright neon signage, but as they would soon learn, it was _not_ like any other bar.

Glancing at her watch, Sara noted the time. 10:03pm. "Hey, Aves…before we go in," she nodded over her shoulder as she pulled the blonde toward the side of the building, "I mean, you read my file. You know about Harmony Falls."

She nodded, "Savage was doing experiments. You didn't make it onto the Waverider, went to Nanda Parbat."

Wringing her hands and wishing she had pockets to shove them in, Sara spoke. "Lindsay worked at the hospital. We had a thing. Just…so we're clear."

Ava looked at her with the most adoring eyes that said _no shit_. "I know. It's okay."

Sara gave her a wide smile and wanted to ask a million and one questions, but mainly: _you're not mad we're stuck in 1961 with my ex and I didn't tell you?_ Instead, she said, "Let's go inside."

It was a mixed crowd, but the room was filled with more women than men. Men in slick suits lined the bar, gazing at women across the room as live music streamed from the stage. It wasn't a gay bar by modern standards at all, but the pair noted the lesbian couples that dotted the table; groups of women that gathered in the corner, peering cautiously at the dance floor; the butch women that shoved their way between the men at the bar to carry handfuls of liquor back to their femmes, who waited at the smaller tables in the back.

Her eyes bouncing from face to face, Sara finally found who she was looking for. "She's over there."

Ava followed her gaze, then asked. "Drinks first?"

Sara sighed in relief. "Fuck yes."

The two made their way to a table near the stage, whiskey and wine in hand. Lindsay's eyes lit up at the sight of the reformed assassin. "Sara, you found it!"

"Hey! Yeah, we made it."

Lindsay looked over to Ava who was sipping on her wine. "We…?"

"Oh, this is Ava," she grinned fondly at the woman to her right.

Lindsay smiled in understanding, motioning to the empty seats across from her. "Sit. My friends just went to dance."

Glancing over her shoulder to the dance floor, Ava spotted two women pressed close as they glided across the floor to the sounds of "I Wanna Walk You Home" by Fats Domino as played by the house band. "We can…?" She asked in awe.

"It's safe enough," Lindsay shrugged, "as long as the cops don't come."

Sara nodded in understanding, giving her girlfriend's thigh a comforting squeeze under the table, as she allowed the bubble of oppressive sadness to pass over them before interjecting. "I probably owe you that explanation now."

Lindsay smirked, motioning for her to continue as she leaned to sip at her gin and tonic.

She leaned forward, her voice low. "Would you believe me if I told you I'm - well, _we're_ \- time travelers from the future?"

"It sounds like a Twilight Zone episode that didn't pass the McCarthy test." The nurse laughed, "Space lesbians."

Through pure reflex, the couple responded in a harmony of _I'm bi_ and _bisexual_.

"Well, in that case, I definitely believe you. Most women like you are hidden in the suburbs with a husband and one-point-five kids by now." She sighed, "Not that I blame them. It's easier that way." Lindsay's eyes lingered across the room, tiredly watching the men who sniggered at the way her friend Paulette's feminine curves filled out her fresh pressed tweed suit. It was Paulette and her femme Grace's anniversary...they deserved _so much more _than this life. If Sara really was from the future, she hoped it was better there. She had to believe it was.

The nurse shook herself out of her reverie and continued, surmising their true request. "You can stay at my place if you need. I'm working the day shift now over at Mount Sinai, but I'll help as much as I can."


	3. Chapter 3

The time travelers continued their night in Tony Pastor's, content to soak in their renewed perspective on life in 1961 as they refilled drink after drink. Lindsay and Sara caught each other up on their travels ("I took the bus from Harmony Falls to Port Authority. I think we stopped thirty times. Could've done without Kansas," Lindsay said.) as Ava sank into the shorter woman's side.

Sara paused an animated re-telling of her tryst with the Queen of France to check on her girlfriend. "Everything okay?"

Ava smiled as she placed a cautious kiss on the woman's cheek. The other couples scattered around the bar seemed to have relaxed under the dim lighting, but she was still unsure. "Just tired. My feet are _killing_ me." The Director was disastrously uncomfortable in the costume she wore for the mission. She didn't dare imagine living daily life under the strict confines of femininity. She loved the ease of her suit, the way it embraced her curves without boxing her into them. _What if we really are stuck here?_

Sara grimaced in sympathy. "I'm sorry, Aves." As a butch bustled past their table, she thought back to the woman they followed into the bar with her comfortable jeans, leather jacket, and worn-in boots. "Hey," she turned to Lindsay, "is there anywhere we could go to get her some new clothes?"

"Pants," Ava interjected.

Lindsay nodded, "There's a secondhand shop in Harlem. They won't ask questions. Got enough of their own problems."

When a dapper-looking young butch in an obviously dated secondhand zoot suit approached the table looking to dance, Lindsay accepted her offer with a coy grin. Sara couldn't help but feel proud of the scared young woman she left back in 1958. She had hoped, but never would have guessed, that in a few short years that very same woman would be at home in the lesbian underground of New York City.

—

The next morning, they followed Lindsay onto the bus. It looked cleaner than Sara could remember public transport being…well, ever. It was a thirty minute ride to the hospital from Lindsay's meager apartment in Hell's Kitchen. The scruffy men from her Irish working class neighborhood towered over businessmen in suits and women in bright-colored dresses who were seated comfortably on the bench seats, likely destined for the same buildings Lindsay's neighbors were sent to maintain.

As the nurse readied herself to jump off the bus, she said, "Just stay on here until 125th and 7th Avenue. Walk toward Lenox. There'll be a cafe with a purple awning about two blocks past The Apollo. Ruth's. It's next door."

Quickly memorizing the directions, Sara nodded, "Got it."

"Just head back the way you came," the nurse turned with a wave as she headed off the bus. "Good luck!"

The faces that entered the bus as they moved past Central Park and into Harlem grew darker with each stop. Sara gazed cautiously at the black and brown profiles scattered throughout the bus, which was standing room only as the city headed off to start its day. She was all too aware that one wrong move, one lingering glance, could change the course of history. The more time they spent in 1961, the more breakable it felt…and she _wanted_ to break it all the more, too. Her thoughts trailed furiously back to Kendra, stuck in 1958. Sure, she was _used to it_ \- whatever that meant - but Egypt and rural Oregon were two drastically different places.

Sara watched as a young black boy caught her eye from across the aisle. She offered a smile and hoped for one in return, but instead was met with the sight of the boy's mother diverting his attention with an admonishing glare. There weren't enough kind words in the world to make the two white women anything but the enemy in this place, not enough to end what they represented. "_As-salamu alaykum_," she greeted, recalling the blessing from her days with the League. A start.

The dark-skinned woman eyed her, curious. Still, she responded. "_Wa alaykumu s-salam_."

The bus stopped. They were in Malcolm X's Harlem.

—

The cacophonous smells of street meat permeated the air as jazz music flowed from half-open windows onto city sidewalks. The couple walked steadily down the path, following Lindsay's directions to the thrift shop. Looking around, it was clear the only white people in this neighborhood were the policemen who lorded over it. Each shopkeeper and family they passed by on their journey averted their eyes. Sara usually reveled in the power she felt wielding her bo-staff, but it felt wrong when it came to her like this. She glanced at Ava, who seemed to be meeting a similar realization. The captain longed to reach out her hand and anchor herself to the other woman, to make a point of showing that she wasn't like _them_. But she couldn't; not here.

After they passed through a bit of scaffolding, Ava spotted the purple awning Lindsay mentioned. "It's up ahead."

Ducking through the doorway, they made it into the small store. It was so narrow, barely wider than they were tall, that it was almost certainly a converted alleyway. A black woman no older than 25 sat behind the counter, flipping through a magazine as what Sara assumed to be the Top 40 station played on the radio. The walls were lined with clothing of all colors, styles, and sizes for both men and women. Immediately, Sara narrowed in on a rack of pants. "Aves, check these out."

The blonde's eyes lit up at the sight of the familiar mix of denim, polyester, and corduroy. Pulling two of the smallest pairs off the rack, she grinned wide at her girlfriend. Lindsay let her borrow a pair of bright purple stirrup pants and a loose-fitting sweater for the day, but she was ready to be in something a little more comfortable.

On the next rack were a variety of men's tops: polos, button-ups, and cardigans. Next to it was a table of t-shirts. Ava pulled two small white t-shirts from the table, along with the nicest looking items from the rack that would fit her: a striped cardigan and two muted button ups.

She turned at the sound of Sara's voice. "These should fit you." She held up a pair of brown leather chukka boots.

"Thanks," she smiled. "I'll go try these on while you look."

Sara explored the store, finding two dresses and a couple more functional outfits in her size that weren't half bad judging by 2019 standards. She personally preferred to show more skin, but she'd have to wait for the sexual revolution for that…and she _really_ hoped it didn't come to that.

With one last walk through the various accoutrements, she spotted a thin black tie. Maybe it wasn't the _best_ idea, but she was absolutely certain Ava would look divine in it. Walking over to the fitting room she spoke through the curtain, "Hey, try this."

The blonde opened the curtain to reveal dark wash jeans bunched over sturdy boots, topped by a thin white t-shirt and a vertically striped cardigan with splashes of red, grey, navy, and white. She looked _good_.

"Here, let me," Sara said, kneeling down to cuff the too-long jeans. Once she was satisfied with her work, she used pulled herself up to a standing position. One hand rested on the taller woman's hip as the other moved to brush loose strands of hair across a newly clothed shoulder. "You look hot," she whispered.

The Director blushed, averting her eyes to the floor for a moment before looking back at her girlfriend to grumble, "I had to take my bra off for it to fit right. Or at least fit without screaming _look at my nipples_. Fucking sixties. Why did I even need a period-authentic bra to begin with?"

Sara did, in fact, look at her nipples. And her bra that was on top of the neat pile of clothing on the chair in the corner. And her utterly kissable lips. Then, like a very turned on broken record, her eyes darted back and forth: _Nipples. Bra. Lips. Nipples. Bra. Lips. Nipples. Bra. Lips._ She wanted desperately to kiss the other woman, but didn't trust the security of the curtain. Ava broke the cycle with a giggle, "Go buy your clothes."

She walked out of the cubicle, but promised, "Later."

Sara had just completed her transaction with the cashier when Ava arrived at the counter with her own items. She placed the clothing delicately on the countertop, the tie sandwiched in-between several items, hoping for discretion.

The woman seemed wholly unbothered, barely looking up from the register before offering up the total. As Ava handed over two worn bills, the shopkeep said, "I appreciate the business from you _ladies_, but you should head back downtown."

Her tone wasn't unkind. It was more of a caution than a threat. _I see you and it's no safer here than it is there. Neither of us want trouble._ Sara gave her a tight smile. "We're on our way."

They hailed a cab, neither willing to wade through the trenches of the public transit system again. As the driver pulled off, the couple watched two burly white cops enter the thrift store they had only just exited. Sara slammed her fist against the car door.

There was no safety in numbers.

* * *

'As-salamu alaykum,' the Arabic greeting meaning 'Peace be unto you,' was the standard salutation among members of the Nation of Islam. The greeting was routinely deployed whenever and wherever Muslims gathered and interacted, whether socially or within worship and other contexts. 'Wa alaykumu s-salam,' meaning 'And unto you peace,' was the standard response. (via Columbia dot edu)


	4. Chapter 4

The club buzzed with the electric sounds of rowdy patrons drinking, laughing, and dancing across the floor to music streaming from the jukebox. (_The band takes Mondays off_, Lindsay explained.) It had been a just a couple days since their last visit but the couple was itching to return to Tony Pastor's. They had barely any room in their schedules for real dates anymore, so maybe -_just maybe_, they thought - getting stuck in time was a blessing in disguise.

Around their large corner booth was Lindsay, Paulette, Grace, and Diane - the new girl Lindsay had her eye on. Paulette and Grace eyed Sara cautiously. It was clear they knew her history with Lindsay and had, rightfully so, focused in on the bit where she disappeared without a word for three years.

"Sara, is it?" The captain nodded in response as she sipped her beer, though she knew it was a rhetorical question. Paulette knew her name - that is, if the daggers shooting from her eyes were anything to go by. "What brings you to New York?" _Why are you back and when are you leaving?_

Meeting the butch's gaze, she responded vaguely. "I just go where the work is." If anything, she was glad Lindsay had a friend so willing to fight for her - not win, but fight nonetheless. "Anyway, my girlfriend wanted to go for a trip."

Ava, indignant, interjected, "I did not!" That seemed to appease the protective woman as the table erupted into brief joyous laughter. "I didn't," she grumbled into her wine glass.

Sara leaned over with a smile, pressing a kiss on the other woman's cheek. "I know, babe. Sorry," she soothed. She _had_ spent a good portion of their last morning on the Waverider convincing Ava that the Time Bureau could manage for one day without her. If Sara was being honest, she really wasn't feeling particularly guilty about it. There was no one she'd rather be stuck with than Ava.

They returned their attention to the table, where Paulette was regaling the women with a story about her latest fight. Paulette worked down at the docks. Her hands were rough and calloused; her body was stocky…heavyset but muscular. There was no suit tonight; just a white t-shirt over loose chinos. As she spoke, she threw jabs to the air. Grace's eyes followed her lover's arms, enraptured by the story she'd likely heard many times before. Sara, numb to the violence of it, nodded mutely along as she spotted a rudimentary shamrock tattoo peeking out from under the cuffed sleeve of Paulette's shirt. _Irish mob…?_ She filed the thought away for later, hoping they wouldn't need _that_ kind of help to get out of 1961.

As Paulette finished her story, a drag queen stumbled up to their table with a tray of shots and an instant camera. "For the most handsome women in the room…aside from me of course," she winked at Ava who blushed in return.

"Smile, ladies!" Hunching together, they each raised a small glass with a big grin. The queen snapped a quick photo, shaking it in her hand as it released from the camera. "Beautiful," she tossed the photo on the table with a flourish, downing a shot, then turning swiftly toward the dance floor. The women laughed at the flamboyant display, eagerly grabbing at the photo to examine it.

Ava and Sara soon followed the queen to the dance floor as they heard Elvis Presley's crooning voice echo across the bar. _Oh, shall I stay? Would it be a sin…if I can't help falling in love with you?_

The taller woman's arms wrapped around her waist as Sara pulled her in close. "We met him, you know?"

"Oh?" Ava responded softly, more of an acknowledgment than a question.

"Yeah. Not as good as this, though," the assassin smiled fondly.

"I love you, too," Ava interpreted, gazing directly into clear blue eyes. It felt as though they were floating across the dance floor and she surely didn't want to look away, in fear it would pop whatever bubble was keeping them suspended.

It suddenly didn't matter that it was 1961. They could have been in the Mesozoic Era with large carnivorous dinosaurs gnawing at their feet. They could have been in 2213, surrounded by every single one of her lookalikes. It didn't matter. She still would have felt absolute bliss.

The record in the jukebox flipped to play a faster track: Chubby Checker's "The Twist." Unbothered by the change, the couple didn't budge. They swayed slowly in each other's arms for the remainder of the song, until Sara asked into her neck, "Wanna go make out?" Ava could feel her smirk.

The taller blonde laughed at the sudden shift, but followed her to the bathroom anyway. The women's restroom was thankfully empty as they entered, sneaking into a stall. As soon as she locked the door, Sara had her pinned against the wall.

"So handsome," she mumbled between kisses.

Ava wore the skinny black tie Sara had picked out the day before. She paired it with a white dress shirt, cardigan, jeans (still perfectly cuffed, thanks to Sara), and the leather boots she purchased that week.

She sighed as Sara peppered her neck with kisses, sucking on her earlobe. Her fingers tightened their grip on the fabric of the red dress at the captain's hips, pulling her closer. One strong hand tugged at the tie, pulling Ava's lips down into a searing kiss, while the other cupped a breast.

"No bra? _Fuck_." Sara moaned into her mouth.

"It looks weird," she explained distractedly as Sara immediately began to rub at her nipples through the fabric, moving her mouth down to lick the hardened peaks. Somewhere in her brain, she was screaming _you're wearing a white shirt, you can't leave the bathroom with wet spots on your fucking nipples_, but it felt so good that she just shoved Sara's hand down her pants.

As her fingers made contact with delicious wetness two things happened:

1\. Ava moaned. It was the most perfect sound Sara had ever heard.

2\. A red light switched on, blaring and ominous above their heads. Straining her well-trained ears, the assassin could hear a struggle. It was time to go.

Sara retracted her hands, giving Ava a moment to gather herself before darting out of the bathroom. It was then that she saw it, or _them_, rather.

There was a horde of cops rounding up every "unaccompanied" woman in the bar. The men were filing out the door like they'd never been there, dragging their girlfriends behind them with hurried glances and hushed whispers of _well, we're never coming back here_. At the head of the charge was the queen who took their photo earlier in the night, except now he was wearing a shirt and tie and a police badge was clipped to his belt. The only trace of his earlier facade was the slightest bit of unwashed makeup that clung to his beard.

"Fucking bastard," Sara cursed, scouring the room for Lindsay and her friends. She found Lindsay and Grace lined up against the bar with the other femmes. Paulette was against the back wall with the butches, cursing at the uniform cop who was making a show of patting her down.

Sara couldn't believe her eyes. These policemen were nothing like the ones she grew up around…not anything like the man who raised her. Not anything like the man who _loved_ her. She was furious. She surged forward, her blood boiling as she grabbed a chair from a nearby table, cracking it over the back of the man molesting Paulette. It was seconds before another cop was on her. She threw an easy elbow back into his chin, rolling out of his grasp as she saw another officer grab Ava.

"Hands on the wall, dyke," he grunted. Ava complied in a haze as their eyes met. She tried to convey a message: _This isn't our fight._ "You got at least three?"

"Three what?" She asked, confused.

He shoved her up against the wall, more roughly this time. "Don't be smart, bitch. Three pieces of women's clothing. Or do I gotta check?"

She did a quick count. Unless her socks counted, all she had on was her underwear. "No," she whispered in realization. Then, more loudly, "N-no…no, sir." Her heart pounded in her ears.

Suddenly enraged, he slammed her head against the wall with enough force to split the fragile skin of her brow, "I _said_, don't be smart."

He cuffed her as blood dripped down her nose and onto her shirt. She glanced over her shoulder where Sara and Paulette stood back-to-back, panting and eager to fight any cop that stepped forward. Sara sagged as she saw Ava, battered and bloody. She nodded. _You're right_. They couldn't alter the timeline. She allowed the next man that stepped forward to wrestle her to the floor with a firm punch to the temple.

—

When Sara regained consciousness, she was in a holding cell. Her head pounded. She sat up, frantic, looking around for Ava. There were a half-dozen women in the cell with her, all from the bar, nursing varying degrees of injury. "My girlfriend? Have you seen her?"

"They usually put us femmes in a different cell, if they even bring us in," a hardened looking woman provided from the corner. Her lip was split and Sara hoped against all hope that what she recognized as a fresh semen stain on the stranger's dress was anything but. "They can pick us off easier."

"Wh-where do they put them?" Her voice was smaller than it had been in years…since Lian Yu.

She shrugged. "Not here."

—

Hours passed before a beat cop came to let them out of their cell. It seemed like days. She couldn't stop thinking about Ava, imagining every brutal detail. Years with the League would do that to you. She had _done_ most of what she was imagining and it only served to make her more nauseated. "Bail's been posted, ladies." As Sara moved to exit the cell, the cop stopped her. "Ah, ah, ah," he tutted. "Not you. You're needed in the interrogation room."

She steeled herself, remembering the women who left the interrogation room even more bruised than when they entered. She knew, above all else, how to finish a fight before it started. As she followed the young cop, she clenched her fists at her sides. Whatever was waiting for her, she was ready.

Upon entering the interrogation room, she learned there was one thing she was not ready for: seeing Ava. Half of her face was caked in blood and the rest had pooled onto her previously crisp white shirt. By the look of her eyes - both ringed in deep purple - her nose was broken.

"Ava?"

"Sara," she groaned out, with a smile that could have been mistaken for a grimace.

"Wait, what are you doing here?" Sara turned to the cop, "Charlie?"

The shapeshifter had the decency to look ashamed. "Yeah. Sorry about…this. Let's get out of here before they realize you're all missing." Without another word, she opened a portal to the Waverider with Ava's time courier. Sara narrowed her eyes, but pulled Ava's arm across her shoulder to assist her onto the ship.

As they walked onto the bridge, the Legends swarmed. They attempted brief apologies and excited explanations about her 1961 arrest being an anachronism, but they were silenced with one stern glare from the assassin that said _I can and will kill you_. She headed directly to the MedBay with Ava stumbling beside her.

"Gideon, block all communications in and out of this room from within the ship," Sara commanded as she laid Ava onto the stretcher, connecting her to the hub. They didn't need to hear this and if she knew her team at all, she knew they were listening.

"Yes, Captain."

"Aves," she rubbed soothing circles with her thumb against the woman's shoulder, "I know everything hurts right now but I need you to tell me what happened so I know how to help." Her unasked question hung in the air._ Did they touch you?_

Ava looked back with fear and recognition. "They tried, yeah. I, uh, fought back. They got angry," she let out a wry laugh, "obviously."

Sara sighed in relief, "Okay." She pressed a gentle kiss against unbruised skin, "I'm proud of you." Without looking up, she spoke to the AI, "Gideon?"

"Three broken ribs, a fractured jaw, and a broken nose. Nothing I can't fix, Captain."

"I'll help with the rest, okay?" She whispered as Ava finally let tears fall. An hour later, Ava was fast asleep in the MedBay, a half-finished smoothie on the table to her right. It was then that Sara finally let Gideon assess her. She'd had worse concussions. Within a half hour, Gideon healed the injury to her brain.

She shook Ava awake when it was well past time for them to sleep. "Let's go to bed."

Ava nodded absentmindedly in her sleepy fog. She followed gingerly behind, her ribs and face still aching and bruised, not fully healed but no longer broken. She settled in the bed, prepared to sleep in the clothes she wore, when Sara handed her a large t-shirt. "You should at least change the shirt."

"Yeah," she nodded, "you're right."

When the taller woman looked trepidatious, Sara reassured, "I won't look."

"No, uh, you can look. Can you help?"

"Of course," she stepped forward. "Let me know if it's too much." Gently, she undid the bloodied buttons - one by one. Sliding the garment off of her girlfriend's shoulders, she held in a gasp. There were clearly defined bruises - three from what _must_ have been a steel toecap boot, then two bootprints. She clenched her jaw.

Grabbing the t-shirt, Sara helped guide it over the other woman's shoulders. "Do you want to sleep in the pants?"

When Ava nodded, she pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder. "That's okay. Let me just take your shoes. You can shower in the morning." Bending down, she untied each shoelace with such a delicate touch it was as if she was defusing a bomb.

She wanted to throw the garments in the trash, but she knew it was better to let Ava do it in her own time. Eventually, they settled into the bed together. Ava soon nestled against her chest, drawing in even breaths. She was asleep - and Sara could only hope it was dreamless.

The assassin, however, was unable to sleep…enraged at all she had seen and unsure if it was strictly advisable to sleep after a punch to the temple - even with future-tech. Unwilling to leave Ava's side, she whispered to the ever-present AI, "Gideon, show me Lindsay Carlisle's timeline."

It was only a moment before she saw Lindsay's face in front of her, projected above the bed. Gideon spoke quietly. "Lindsay Carlisle died in 2004 of lung cancer. She filed for a domestic partnership with one Diane Sackett in 1998." _Diane…from the bar._ "They were one of the first in the State of New York. Though records show they were together since at least the mid-Sixties, based on their political activism. Miss Carlisle was a leading member of The Lavender Menace and worked as a nurse assisting patients with HIV from the first emergence of the disease in 1981 up until her death."

With a sigh, she whispered, "Thank you." Maybe they did the right thing. Maybe certain things are fixed point in time. Maybe Lindsay and Diane and everyone else they fought beside that night were meant to continue on, so that one day in 2016 she could join the Legends and meet Ava and go back to 1961 and do it all over again.


End file.
